The Preserve

by Steve Anderson

  Steep vast slopes rose to the left and right, dwarfing all. To their hard left, which was northwest, stood Hualalai, the island’s third largest volcano. On the horizon loomed the two mighty volcanoes, just as Kanani promised—to the right Mauna Loa and ahead on the left Mauna Kea, their gradual high peaks masked by dense cloud banks in the otherwise clear sky. Linking the two mauna farther ahead was a lava-laden funnel of a basin, only a few miles wide at its lowest stretch. Kanani called this the Saddle.

  The Saddle was their passage through to the other side.

  Eight o’clock. Full daylight. “Sun’s up—heads covered,” Jock barked, and Kanani pulled her khaki bucket hat on. She handed Lett one from Jock’s pack. Almost no trees or bushes remained. The wind carried some warmth but still it ripped at them. They trudged on, their feet pounding at the hard earth that was turning so creviced and jagged that they couldn’t take their eyes off it. A half hour for every mile had seemed conservative. Now it was looking optimistic.

  Jock waved them down into a shallow gully. They lay on flat lava and looked out, catching their breath, the grass poking and itching. Behind them, the tropical forest holding The Preserve was only a green line along the blue horizon. Jock got binoculars out.

  “It’s too quiet back there,” Kanani groaned.

  She didn’t need to say it. They had to expect a mighty wrath.

  Jock rolled around and peered ahead at the looming basin between Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa. Somewhere along the Saddle, a narrow and dipping and choppy road had been blasted out of the lava. Saddle Road locals called it—the only vehicular route through the middle of the island. “They could take Saddle Road,” Jock commented, and no one disputed him.

  They took bites from a tropical bar, sipped water, pushed on. By noon they’d gone twenty miles. It was only about sixty degrees out, but they could feel their rubber soles growing warmer.

  Kanani slowed. She kept looking back over her shoulder. She stopped. She grabbed and pulled at them and they crouched down. “Look, back there. What is that thing?”

  ***

  A giant beast rose into the sky, far behind them but ever higher. They scrambled into a trench for better cover, lying in a row. Lett and Jock tore at grass and laid it over Kanani and then covered each other as best as they could. Kanani muttered something in Hawaiian.

  “Helicopter,” Lett and Jock blurted at the same time.

  The small helicopter rose fast, its nose down as it roared up. It hovered over The Preserve, then over the open plain just beyond the tropical forest, passing back and forth. Jock clamped the binoculars onto his eyes, focused.

  “Markings?” Lett said.

  “Don’t make out any, but it’s Army green. Shit.”

  “What?”

  “Jeeps. Motorbikes. Combing the plain beyond the forest. Can’t get far with those. Looks like guys on foot, though, too.”

  “We’re miles ahead,” Kanani said. “Hours.”

  “Right now we are.”

  “You think they know we’re crazy enough to cross the island?” she said.

  “Maybe, maybe not. They’re covering all their bases. Kona Town, the port, probably got so many of their boys snooping around you’d think it was Hotel Street. But then again, we were crazy enough to take out two birds with one stone, weren’t we?”

  “It’s Lansdale,” Lett said.

  “If it’s him, they’ll head this way,” Kanani said. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  ***

  An immense slab, purplish black in the sun, its plateau as high as their heads, its width at least a couple miles, its length that of a great river. They had come to a massive lava flow formation, more than a century old but looking as if it had only just cooled. No grass, no weeds up there. Jock was up above climbing around, crouching with the binoculars.

  It had been a half hour since they’d spotted the helicopter. The adrenaline of freedom had helped Lett tame his aches and pains, but now the fatigue of full flight was setting in. His throat was dry, his hungry stomach a throbbing hollow, his muscles shaky and his nerves prickly.

  Jock waved them up.

  “This is one of the main lava flows,” Kanani said, sounding proud as if she were guiding tourists. “But this isn’t the worst rock,” she added as they climbed. “You get two kine lava on Big Island—pahoehoe and ’a’a. Pahoehoe flow, that’s your smooth and wavy surface, like this. Ho, but the ’a’a? It’s all broken up. Jagged, loose, rocky piles of hell. No good, bruddah.”

  “I thought we already passed that.”

  “Oh, no. This flow will have plenty of ’a’a. I can almost see it up ahead.”

  Jock led them along. “It’s like a goddamn obstacle course up here,” he panted, “so be careful. Man, do I hate fuggin islands. Just rocks, all of them.”

  He had a raw red scrape on his elbow. Kanani made a clicking sound at it.

  “Look at it this way,” Lett offered. “No scout bike could traverse this, certainly no jeep, not with this busted-up lava.”

  “True,” Jock said. “But that helicopter decides to head this way now with us out in the open? We’re fucked beyond all recognition, I tell you.”

  They scrambled across the black river of slabs, zigzagging to avoid the spans of ’a’a rock, and then came gaping crevices. Their usual half-hour-a-mile pace slowed, each mile taking closer to an hour. Then it was all ’a’a, and it was like hiking across a bed of coral. The brittle sharp chunks wobbled and shattered and shifted under their feet. Ankles nearly rolled, palms scraped. After an hour of it they could finally smell the dry brown grass of the Saddle. Almost there.

  Behind them the helicopter hovered nearer, high in the sky.

  “Why are they staying away?” Kanani asked Jock.

  “If they got good sighting gear? It don’t matter—they could probably see us from there.”

  “Oh.”

  They rushed on, tiptoeing and skidding and kicking up rocks.

  The lava flow ended as it began—with a sudden drop-off. They had to navigate it like a rocky cliff, grasping at one another’s hands and elbows. Back down on the scrubby grass, about a quarter mile to the north, they came to a white sign, black letters on a white background:

  OFF LIMITS

  AUTHORIZED MILITARY PERSONNEL ONLY

  46.

  Seeing the off-limits sign made all of Wendell Lett’s aches and pains return throbbing. His head spun. “This is no good, no good at all,” he blurted as he backed up, intent on heading back to the lava flow. A rock and a hard place was safer than this.

  “Maintain calm,” Jock said, “we’re all right.”

  “Yeah? Says who?”

  “The Preserve wasn’t a military camp. Lett, stop. Listen to me.”

  “I don’t see any kine barb wire,” Kanani said.

  “They don’t need any,” Lett snapped, “not in a no-man’s-land like this.” He rushed up to Kanani. “You knew. You knew we’d need to pass through a military zone. Didn’t you? You knew all along.”

  Kanani was shaking her head. But she held up a hand. “Okay, okay—I did think it was possible. I’m sorry.”

  Lett faced Jock.

  “Does look like the only way out, Lett. Or through.”

  “All right.” He grabbed at the canteen. He passed it around. Jock and Kanani avoided each other’s glances. Kanani was eyeing Jock as she sipped water. She kept eyeing him.

  “What?” Jock barked at her. “You’re the one. You said you had it all figured out.”

  “I got us out of there. I had that part figured. The rest was just . . . hoping.”

  Jock lapsed into silence, sorting things out in his head. “Look at it this way,” he said eventually, “if this area is official military, then Lansdale’s helicopter won’t dare get too close. That’s my guess. They must need to keep a low profile. So that’s something.”

  “Not exactly a silver lining,” Lett said.

  “We still need to cross Saddle Road at some point,” Kanani sai
d.

  “Yeah, that’s still a major obstacle,” Jock said. “Lansdale could have a crew waiting there. Like I was saying before.”

  “Saddle Road isn’t military land itself—it’s open to anyone,” Kanani said. “Maybe Lansdale goes to the police even?”

  “Nah. Police take too long here. You know that. And want nothing to do with this.”

  They gnawed on tropical bars and shared a can of C-rat, each deep in thought and worry.

  They headed onward, across more of those high plains of brown grass and lava earth like they had traversed before the lava flow. The gradually rolling plains stretched for miles and miles, and they made better time. Mauna Loa stood behind their right shoulders now, while Mauna Kea waited before them, ahead on their left. They heard nothing, saw little but brown grass and the occasional bunch of scrawny short trees. They fell silent for whole miles at a time, each pondering what brought them to this and what lay in wait. Even if they cleared the military zone, Lett imagined, they still might encounter an army of Frankie clones lining Saddle Road with shotguns as a grinning Lansdale stood ready holding a black hood and the fattest glass-and-iron syringe known to veterinary science.

  Four o’clock. Two more hours had passed. The wind let up, the sun blazed. Lett was drenched with sweat. Almost twelve hours into this. Up ahead another lava flow slab came into view, ever thicker and higher. They reached another warning sign:

  FIRING RANGE

  BEWARE LIVE ORDINANCE

  A cinder cone loomed ahead, slightly to their right. Halfway up the dark and barren hill, white target boards gleamed.

  Kanani looked to Lett and Jock.

  “Not a good idea crossing that direction,” Jock said.

  “Might as well be a minefield,” Lett added.

  “Then we got no choice but to keep heading left,” Kanani said and led them due northeast, straight toward Mauna Kea, a massive slope of a horizon rising into the sky, its peak still concealed by a solitary cloud bank that never seemed to clear. “We’re in the Saddle now. No other way. Saddle Road will be straight ahead.”

  Jock reached a lone tangle of ragged trees that were more like diseased bushes. Lett and Kanani joined him. Jock crouched within the tangle, pushing away dry scrawny branches, and raised the binoculars. Lett didn’t like how quiet Jock got. He grunted once, twice.

  Jock handed Lett the binoculars. “Ten o’clock,” he said.

  Lett shifted his view slightly to the left. At the base of Mauna Kea’s slope, he made out a cluster of short long buildings of corrugated metal. Quonset huts.

  His throat went dry, his stomach wanted to seize up. He handed Kanani the binoculars.

  “Auwe,” she said and muttered similar thoughts.

  Jock added a heavy sigh. “Way I see it? Must only be a small troop posted to those Quonset huts. Supposing they’re Marines. They could take care of us.”

  “Could. Might,” Kanani said. “No, nothing doing. It’s too risky.”

  Jock didn’t respond.

  “And what if they’re Army?” Lett added.

  But Jock just growled.

  ***

  Half an hour later—pushing 5:30 p.m. They had pressed forward, but it was slow going and they needed a break. They found a gully. It held a small cave, surely the entrance to another lava tube. Lett faced the hole, took a deep breath, and waved them down in.

  The cave held the three of them standing and little more. Any farther and they would have to crouch and crawl. Their shoulders rubbed at rock and one another. They sipped more water rations, two swallows each. Something other than the cave was nagging at Jock. He kicked at pebbles like a kid left alone too long in a sandbox.

  “What is it?” Lett said.

  “Look. I done some thinking.” Jock lifted his arms, let them slap at his hips. “I’ll go there. Me only. Go it alone. Tell them I was hiking around and got lost. ’Cause I’m just this cuckoo gyrene still fouled up by the war and it’s the only way to get some peace, see. Hawaii’s just full of us.” He held up a finger. “But. Some crazy types were coming after me. Don’t know who they are. They followed me onto the firing range. My fellow Marines won’t like that.”

  “You’re a decoy,” Kanani said.

  “Let’s call it a diversion. Might be the only way to get you through this gauntlet.”

  “If they are Marines,” Lett said.

  “We’ll just have to take the chance. I won’t muck things up. I got my papers all squared. I never was on The Preserve, remember? No one’s to talk of it ever. Top secret.” As he spoke, Jock couldn’t look at Lett.

  “Tell me something,” Lett said. “Are you really aiming to reenlist?”

  Jock’s eyelids hung, making him look more sad than tired. “Look, don’t ask questions. Don’t worry about me. Just go along with it. It’s the best plan and you know it. Maybe I even persuade them to head off Lansdale’s posse? They’re probably bored to tears out here. They’d love the action. Track down some deadbeats. What I’d really like to do is tell ’em Dugout Doug himself is involved somehow. But that’s only asking for the stockade—for you and for me.”

  “Fuck ’em all,” Lett said.

  “Fuck ’em all,” Jock responded. He sang a few lines of the old song. Lett joined in.

  “The long and the short and the tall . . . Fuck all the generals and above all fuck you! . . . So we’re saying good-bye to them all . . .”

  They laughed. Kanani clapped.

  Lett’s laugh sputtered out. He stared at Jock. “Stay with us instead,” he said. He didn’t have to spell out what it meant. They could be on the lam quite a while.

  “It’s not my style,” Jock muttered.

  “Then, don’t reenlist. Promise me that much.”

  “Too late. My mind’s made up.”

  Lett’s chest tightened and grew hot, as if he were smoking and holding it all in.

  “I am what I am,” Jock said. “They drilled it into me. And, hell, I’m practically an Asiatic anyways. What am I supposed to do back there, home sweet home? Become a Pinkerton man? Busting strikes? Cracking down on the next wave of vets with a valid beef?” He spat.

  Lett only now noticed that Kanani had left them alone. She was crawling out into the daylight with the binoculars. Jock was watching her, too, and an incredulous smile spread across his face as if he were watching some rare bird in a zoo. “One hell of a dame,” he said.

  “Ain’t she, though?”

  “She did what she had to do.”

  Jock went through his pack with Lett, separating items. He handed Lett one canteen, a can of C-rat, a spoon. Lett handed back the can. Where would he put it? Jock gave him the last tropical bar instead. He slung his pack back on.

  “Keep your head down, gyrene,” Lett said.

  “You do the same, dogface.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” Lett said.

  He saw the glint of tears in Jock’s eyes. Jock must’ve seen Lett’s own tears welling.

  “Give me an hour,” Jock said.

  “Will do. Give ’em hell.”

  Jock squeezed Lett’s shoulders. “You just make it out, will you? And some day? I hope you will know where to find me,” he said, and he was off, scampering out the cave on his haunches like he was playing crab.

  Lett, his eyes blurring wet, watched as Jock and Kanani shared gentle words and a hug out in the gully. Kanani pushed the binoculars into Jock’s hands. He forced them back on her. She took them, pressed them to her chest like a teddy bear. Jock kissed her cheek. And he was away again and out into the blazing daylight. So fast had he passed through Lett’s strange life that Lett wasn’t sure if his soldier friend was an angel or a ghost.

  47.

  Lett and Kanani stayed in the cave a little while, listening to the wind, crouching, debating their chances, hoping. They splashed drops of water on their faces. They crept out of the cave; the sun hung low on the horizon. They were a quarter mile south of Saddle Road. The lava rock on this south side of t
he road stretched on for a few miles to the east. They hiked northeast, heading straight for the road, mighty Mauna Kea a brown monolith before them. Their plan was to cross Saddle Road where the lava ended. The grassy slope plains around the volcano would eventually lead them to the island’s lush and remote eastern coast.

  They trudged on. They skirted the jagged ’a’a lava and flanked the wavy slabs of pahoehoe—this wild mix of lava-lands was a labyrinth with no solution. The wind had picked up, flinging dust and grit.

  About ninety yards from Saddle Road, they hunkered behind a mound. Lett drew the binoculars. The military encampment, well behind them now to the northwest, looked as dead as ever, just drab squares and rectangles. Closer to them he could see the road, a winding strip of mottled gray cut out of the purple-black, a gravel route packed down from use but so narrow and uneven that locals warned visitors never to drive it.

  Lett watched a truck approach. It was black, a panel truck, and unmarked. It passed by.

  Then another unmarked black panel truck passed.

  Lett refocused; Kanani tugged at him; he kept watching. The two black panel trucks kept passing, back and forth, east and west, so much so that the gravel loosened and dust billowed.

  Kanani squatted closer, whispering. “It’s them.”

  “Lansdale’s men,” Lett said. “We have to assume it.”

  One of the panel trucks parked halfway between the encampment and their spot behind the mound. Two broad-shouldered men in dark gear exited the truck’s rear, raised binoculars, and scanned the landscape.

  Lett pulled behind the cover of the mound. He checked his watch: 6:30 p.m. The sky was dimming fast. Far west, over Kona, pink-and-orange streaks of clouds painted the sky. Soon the sun would be down and the lava would turn as black as night, impossible to cross without a flashlight. Even with their eyes adjusted to the dark they could bust an ankle or land facedown in the jagged stuff. And their pursuers had to know it.

  The second black panel truck was still roaming the road, back and forth, west and east. Lett dared another look. The parked truck was there still, but the men weren’t visible. Were they back inside it? Could he be sure? Or were they now out roaming the land?